Curdled Blood, Twisted Seed: the sheriff's woes
by IrideonthePURPLEbus
Summary: I will judge how much people like this by the reviews. A tale about a character intertwined both with the outlaws of sherwood AND the sheriff
1. Chapter 1

_**Curdled Blood, Twisted Seed**_

_About Andraste Cliodhna of Nottingham_

_Part one_

Not many knew about Andraste Cliodhna. Off the top of her head, she could only name one; the witch. Well Mortianna was dead now, so that made Andraste almost non-existent, which in her mind was just as good as invisible. She kicked the cold crumpled form that had fallen against the doorway, confirming once and for all that the wicked devil worshipper was in fact no longer living. She placed the toe of her boot on the witch's nose, mashing it down and moving it to and fro. She had always wondered how the skin stayed on the old hag's bones.

As she was rifling through the folds in the Mortianna's clothes, trying to stomach the stench of death and portent potions, she heard it. It was a deep, hollow groan so filled with agony, that she felt her soul was about to rip in two. And not just from the pain of any man: she recognized that voice.

Trembling, she kicked open what was left of the door, looking around at a nearly empty room, taking special care to inspect the wrecked altar. Then she heard the moan again, this one softer, or weaker. She tripped over herself to get to the seemingly lifeless figure by the window. He was a tall, exceedingly pale man, with the greasiest black curls fallen in front of his face, quivering slightly as his breathing grew more ragged with each swell of his breast. There was blood gushing from a wound just below the fatal spot, and Andraste blanched as she realized she was walking through a large puddle of his 'life-water'. Robin Hood had missed killing him by mere millimeters. His eyes flickered open as she stood above him. They were bloodshot, the whites of the eyes turned pink, which contrasted disgustingly with golden hazel irises.

As The Sheriff of Nottingham (George was his real name) struggled to open his eyes for what he was sure would be his very last time, he saw what appeared to be a young man, aged about fifteen, hovering over him. His wild imagination flared to picture thousands of different possibilities, each one turning out to be more horrible then the last.

The boy's almost emaciated form was wrapped in a tartan of robin's egg blue, with white and violet lines criss-crossing about it. Underneath the tartan was a midnight blue velvet shirt, skin tight and matched by a pair of leggings under the lad's kilt. The hilts of several daggers stuck out of his boots, and a white cat-o-nine-tails was coiled at his side, the deadly ends stained red with blood.

With the last ounce of his strength, he pulled away from the person in front of him, scrambling back a mere two inches before his arms and legs gave out. He could feel everything going black, and as his sight faded, he issued one last word of loathing.

"Celt!"

"Celt," Andraste grumbled to herself as she struggled down the steps, the sheriff of Nottingham in her arms "I'll show you a Celt and put you in front of a mirror..." She stopped dead as she heard voices outside. As an instinct, she pressed herself hard against the wall of the tower, looking down at the sheriff's hastily bandaged wound. The black cloth that was torn from his very shirt was starting to grow wet and sticky. She didn't have much time.

She had hung around the campsite long enough to recognize that Robin Hood was speaking to his brother. She did not know his brother's name, arriving only with the Celtic mercenaries and lingering behind afterward. Soon their voices faded into nothingness. With great embarrassment, She realized she was sweating and breathing hard, her bright blue face paint starting to run. If the two had just listened more intently, her and her burden would have certainly been found.

She shifted her weight, bending as she laid the sheriff on the steps for a moment. She straightened and cupped her hands around her mouth, wincing as she nicked a cheek with one of the spikes on her gauntlets. Andraste hesitated, and then let out a loud, clear, and rather convincing crow call.

The seconds ticked by like hours, and Andraste felt an uneasiness in her stomach that would not go away. Her mind was racing in circles, telling herself over and over again that they wouldn't come. And in reality why should they? Sure, she was a Celt like them, but they had been from Gaul, and she had traced her roots to Dublin, two very different places. Andraste had regretted the moment she snuck into their camp. They were lewd, barbaric, and disgusting creatures, and she hadn't tried to hide her recoil from them. She hadn't opted to pay them when she announced her plan to save the sheriff either, just tried to sway them with strong words. They had been paid to go after Robin Hood's camp, but would they do the sheriff another favor _without_ gold?

"Shit, they're not coming..."

But then, very quietly, but still present, there it was; the responding crow call. They were here! Andraste actually laughed out loud, holding her hands up above her head and twirling about. She stumbled and fell back against the wall. Somewhat sobered, she heaved the body of George of Nottingham up into her arms again. She sorely wanted to hoist him over her shoulder and make it easier on her, but she knew that would only agitate the wound more.

By the time she reached the cart outside, the strain and the winter's cold had cramped up her hands, she rested him on a hefty pile of straw next to her, sitting back and massaging her joints. Behind her, a horrible baying started up. She turned about to see half a dozen Irish wolfhounds all looking at the sheriff hungrily, a malignant gleam in their eyes.

"Wotcher preshus cargo, swee'art," Said one of the older thugs, as he tore some unknown meat off of a rather large bone. Andraste shuddered, having inherited her wild imagination from her father. Maybe it was her, but that bone looked an awfully lot like a human femur. "Careful da dogs don' ea' 'im," He continued, showing his blackened teeth "Dey can smell de blud."

"Oh," She retorted brightly, "That's wonnerful, now if you wouldn't mind handing me my kit, so I can fix him up?"

Almost grudgingly, the old man pulled out a wooden box with a sloppily painted up-side down cross on it. Below the head of the son of god was a pentacle, and the words 'heal ye or fear ye'

"Pardon me snoopin' m'lady...boot aye...I wuz lookin' a' dat 'ealin' kit o' yorze..dat's debil worship dere, dat is," The man said, wiping his hand off hurriedly after she took the box from him, as if touching it would infect him. Andraste smiled darkly.

"Oh aye, the pictures may be those o' devil worship, but that's just to deter people from opening it. Our gods, the druid gods o' Eire, do not worship evil, nor do I."

Having sufficiently shut the Gaulish man up, she unclipped her tartan sash from her belt and laid it down on top of another generous pile of hay. Like all Scottish and Irish warriors' clothing, the sash doubled as a wool blanket. She carefully shifted the man from one pile to another, hastily undoing the makeshift bandage and pulling out clean, spotless strips of cloth. But then, something she wholly hadn't expected happened. George of Nottingham opened his eyes and spat, giving Andraste the evil eye.

"I hate Celts." He hissed, watching her as she wrapped the bandage about his chest.

She pulled her eyes away from her task for just a moment, glaring back at him. George would have jumped back if he had the strength. Her eyes were the same shape, size, and color as his. Yes, he recognized her features to be that of a girl's now, not to mention the lack of sash revealed her velvet garbed bosom. She had curly black hair, tied back into a braid, and sallow, tall face with pale skin.

"Aye, and if you say that, you must mean you hate yourself as well," She said with a tone of great conviction in her voice, "_Father._"


	2. Chapter 2

_**Curdled Blood, Twisted Seed**_

_About Andraste Cliodhna of Nottingham_

_Part two_

_** 3 **_

"Oh would you stop the bloody cart for a second? We're already well away, and I need to stitch him up!" Andraste yelled at the cart driver, who pulled to a stop so abrupt that she had to hang on to her father to make sure he didn't go flying off the back. The other mercenaries had grown to be afraid of the druid. They called her 'Mist Woman' in Gaulish, because she had the almost supernatural ability to fade in and out of existence: to blend in with any crowd, so it went without saying that they did nearly everything she ordered.

"The resemblance may be uncanny..." Panted George of Nottingham, looking down at the woman, his eyes hovering over her cleavage before he remembered that she might in fact, be telling the honest truth. "But I've never fathered a baby of any sort, much less a daughter."

"Now Dad," She said, smiling a bit to herself as she heard him groan in pain. "Oops, forgot to tell you I was starting to sew. Now dad, how can you be so sure? How many times have you slept with a maid of the castle, only to expel her for a younger model less than a year later? How can you be so sure you never fathered a child?"

George was about to speak, opening and closing his mouth several times before he gave up, wishing she could stitch faster. This brought a satisfied smile to the young woman's face. As she pulled the whale's bone needle through his skin once more, she spoke again.

"My name is Andraste Cliodhna...of Nottingham, obviously."

"So you have Gaelic names as well. All the more reason for me to hate you. You know if you thought your little proclamation of being my daughter would work, it just makes me despise you more, you little bastard."

The expression on Andraste's face remained blank as she took her father's insults, but she speared the next piece of flesh rather less gently than the last, pulling that particular stitch tighter than was necessary. She couldn't help smiling when she heard the cry of pain.

"Whose fault is it I _am _a bastard? It doesn't matter, it's all the same to me, because like it or not, everyone's out to get you now. You're safest option is to stay with us." Then she leaned closer, so that the one feature on her face that didn't resemble his; her nose, was right beside his ear. "And by us, I mean me. The group of mercenaries was reduced significantly. We can make off with most of their food without the barbarians even noticing."

It dawned on George at this point that she was no barbaric mercenary Celt as he had feared. Firstly, she knew how to doctor wounds; Secondly, she could speak properly; thirdly, she was wholly more hygienic than the others: The only hint of a dead animal on her was the black rabbit fur pouch hanging from her belt. She also seemed to be a great deal cleverer then the others, as it became apparent that she was basically using them the way he had. It would be pointless to fight with someone almost as civilized as himself, he thought.

'So...what do they mean?" He said, trying to strike up conversation. "Your names, that is."

His change of heart actually made her hesitate, as if it were a trap. "Andraste," She finally said, "Means invincible, and Cliodhna means shapely. I'm afraid I haven't grown into either of those names quite yet."

Well it was hard to become invincible, but George had to argue with her about the second name. She might have been extremely skinny, but she still had the sought after hourglass effect. Her legs were long and sinewy, and she was filled out enough that people could not mistake her for a young girl anymore than they could him. She was definitely a woman.

"Well I think-"

"There, all done." She interrupted, motioning to one of the thugs, who brought over a heavy woolen cloak and tunic. To George's dismay, the cloak was plaid. The colors were mostly black, like the tunic, with greens and golds running through it.

"Am I supposed to wear this?" He said, not trying to hide the disgust in his voice.

"The only reason you weren't brought up Irish like I was is because Mortianna gave you to English parents at birth. Otherwise you'd probably be named something like Ardal, or Felic. Anyways, be happy you have something to put over your skin. It's cold, and it's either that or something one of the Gauls have. Would you like a badly skinned bear tunic instead?"

"I'll take the plaid." He said hurriedly

---

**_ 3 _**

---

Over the course of that evening, George studied his apparent daughter. Having been mortally wounded, she forbade him to exert himself past talking, breathing, and eating. One of the first things he noticed was how hard she was to keep an eye on. She was one of those people who you barely threw a glance at before turning back to your normal tasks. As it was, she seemed to have lived her life taking advantage of this, and even sitting still at the edge of the firelight, she seemed to fade in and out of existence. Sometimes he only knew she was there by the faintest glimmer of the velvet, or a scraping sound of boot on foliage as she shuffled about the forest, dragging her feet.

At some point he dozed off, because he was awoken by two hands hoisting him up. He opened his eyes to see a gruesome mountain of a man carrying him, looking at someone ahead. Baffled, and still slightly asleep, he let his head drop to the side, gazing at Andraste's back.

"'M going to bed," She said automatically, and for a moment, he wondered if she had inherited her grandmother's gift. How else would she have been able to tell when he awoke?

To make things creepier, she looked over her shoulder, smiled, and said "you stopped snoring." What, was she reading his mind now?

Shaking off the crawling sensation on in his skin, he took a deep breath, constricted as it was by pain, and said "Why do you need me to come with you to bed?"

She turned around to face him, walking backwards through the forest. With every turn of events, he was finding his daughter to be more and more bizarre and complex.

"It's not _I_ who need _you_. I would rather keep watch over you to make sure everything's alright. I would leave you be watched by one of the others, but I have a fleeting feeling they may be cannibals." She said.

"Andraste, watch what you say around-"

"-The Celts? Oh I'm pretty sure that they don't understand any Anglo word that has more than two syllables. Even some two syllable words they don't understand. Like portal, or irate, or pallid, or..."

And she went on, walking backwards and listing a bunch of words, each more complicated than the last. This girl was obviously someone very well read, something very impressive and very intimidating at the same time. She wore an irksome little smile as she listed them, and it was obvious that she was trying to annoy him into something like an early grave.

As she went on, George fully awoke and took his first look around. Dawn had brought a pastel yellow to the sky, and a silver mist about waist high was permeating the trees, leaving sparkling dew in its midst. He frowned.

"Going to sleep? And what have you been doing all night?"

She turned back around sharply, her expression turned surly and secretive. "You were watching me all night, you tell me." Her voice was full of venom. He realized he should've masked his gazing earlier, and not risked such a horrible breach of trust. But even so, her mood should not have changed so sharply. Something was up.

"Well, I-"

"Besides what I was doing is none of your business as of yet. In due time, I will tell you, but for now. Your business is strictly to heal and to worry about your own affairs," She said as she lifted her tent flap, moving out of the way and ushering the giant man past her. He set George down rather roughly on the familiar blue tartan blanket. He winced at the jolt and stared fiercely at the Gaul-man as he left. She stepped in behind him and tied up the opening, setting her various weapons upon a complicated looking table, with many shafts and pegs in the stand, it looked as though it were collapsible. She hung the whip up on a hat stand nearby and started to undo the braid in her hair. When down, it hung about shoulder length; extremely short for a woman.

Next she walked over to him and to George's surprise, straddled him, sitting down carefully on his stomach as she pulled out fresh bandages from the pouch at her side and began to undo the buttons.

"So Robin of Locksley did this to you?" She asked, frowning.

"Robin of Locksley..." He echoed, mulling the name over in his head. It was odd that she still called him Robin of Locksley, and not Robin of the Hood. He was ashamed that such a mediocre outlaw like Robin had bested him. It really was just because he had surprised him with the dagger. '_Maid Marian's Dagger._' He thought grudgingly to himself.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

The girl snorted. "Of course it was, who else would it be? She said as she leaned over his chest, placing a hand by his side to steady herself. "Sorry I didn't reach you earlier, then. Something the barbarians said about evil signs in the sky...Wouldn't go for the longest time..." She paused again to snort and shake her head. "These barbarians follow all the wrong kinds of magic...Just like Mortianna. Wasn't she a dislikeable being..."

George was silent, staring straight up at the ceiling of the tent.

"You know she tried to bring me in and take care of me herself. Mortianna, that is. A vile being. I escaped. Ran away to Kilkenny. They accepted me there, you know." She said matter-of-factly, undoing the bandages to look at the wound. George's skin prickled at the young woman's touch, sending an uninvited shiver up his spine and down his limbs and making his fingers tremble slightly.

"Don't worry," She said softly, "I'll be gentle with it..." Her fingers traced lightly over the stitches, studying them so closely for error, that her ski slope of a nose was mere inches away.

"Well, it seems fine..."

"Kilkenny?"

She looked up, slightly confused, until she realized what he was talking about. She sat back and laid her hand on his chest; while the other reached down to pull off her boots.

"Oh yes, Kilkenny. In Ireland. Well of course you knew that. Anyway that's where my mother moved. After...you know." There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

"Her release...?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. After she left the castle, another Lord took her in, one very different from you...well I don't know his name exactly, you see, my mother was so distraught when she had me that she gave me up as soon as I could walk and talk...Anyways. He despised you, I'm sure. But I always remember my mother telling me bedtime stories of a sort...stories about how great and noble and handsome you were. But when I was about five, I returned to the castle. The Lord said..." And despite herself, she choked. The tears that had been welling up inside her, threatened to overflow onto her ashen cheeks. She took a deep breath and continued.

"He said that she had left...that he had ended things with her and she had..." But she covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. Worried for his daughter, George propped himself up into a sort of sitting position, which was hard because she still had her legs wrapped around his stomach.

"An-Andraste..." his eyes belied his normal confidence, which seemed to be slipping away more and more nowadays. He ignored the cold as it bit into his bare skin, but the pain from the stitches made him wince. His hands clasped her bony shoulders, and he gazed into her eyes, which were a mirror image of his. "Tell me, what'd she do?" Normally, he couldn't have cared less, but...This girl was just so different. Besides the looks, she reminded him so much of himself at that age; a gangly, moody youth, but powerful and self-sufficient. He felt the need to be a parent, unlike his mother Mortianna.

"She went back to Kilkenny." He said reassuringly, although his eyes still questioned. She shook her head and looked down. "You said she went back to Kilkenny." Even in his weakened state, his arms gripped her shoulders tight, and made them tremble as another shiver went through his body, the cold the shock hitting his bare chest like a cannonball. What had he done to this poor girl's life? And what had she done to deserve it?

"She went back to Kilkenny..." She choked out, her words sounding watery and strangled. "...In a coffin. She took her life...She couldn't take two rejections, from the only to men in her life that she loved. Well, she always favored you. It was her wish to be buried at her hometown in Ireland...and so she was."

There was an awkward silence after that. Both people looked away over the other's shoulder, Andraste clearly wanting nothing more than to be held by her father. Her father George wanted to hold her as well, but his thoughts were more muddled than hers, and he restrained, keeping his hands on her shoulders. By now, Andraste's tears were flowing freely now, and her normally pale cheeks were flushed pink.

After what seemed like an eternity, she sniffed and wiped the salty tears from her eyes, puffy as they were. She laughed as she averted her eyes by looking down, and noticed the tear spots on her father's stomach. She looked back at him and continued, finding the activity of pulling her left boot of abnormally interesting.

"So yea, um...After that, I stayed with him for about a year. Had a devil of a child, that one. He said he had another sun with my mother, but apparently he had run away," She said, sounding completely occupied, addressing him as though he was interrupting her very bus schedule. "So like I said I stayed with him a year, before Mortianna kidnapped me..." She smiled. "That was an utterly horrible two months, but I did get to meet you." She let out a breathless sort of laugh as her eyes remained transfixed on her boot. You were everything I imagined. You probably don't remember me. You thought I was just another child of one of the workers...I remember you gave me an apple...we were in the kitchens." Finally she looked up at him, and her eyes, red though they were from crying, were sparkling. "But then of course, I ran away to Kilkenny. I stayed with a small group of druids that were hiding out, keeping away from the Normans' capture. I thought I could just...you know...wait it out until the old crone died. Wish I could actually find my brother though...tell him all about us and stuff. You know, live with him." She said, shrugging.

Finally forcing her boot off, she un-straddled and rolled next to him. She stretched and yawned. It was only then that he noticed there was no other place to sleep besides on the blanket right next to him.

"Well goodnight, Father..."

They're thoughts as they drifted off to sleep were very different. George of Nottingham wondered worriedly how he was to act like a father. Indeed, this occupied his mind almost as much as Andraste Cliodhna's, which was merely a name, yet reverberated through every inch of her being; Will Scarlett.


End file.
